Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Is this a dagger which I see before me?
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage.
Out, out, brief candle!
What’s done is done.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
I dare do all that may become a man.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair: hover through the fog and filthy air.
This supernatural soliciting cannot be ill, cannot be good.
It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood.
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under ‘t.
Give me your hand; conduct me to mine host.
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition.
Full of scorpions is my mind!
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam at one fell swoop?
Unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.
Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow.
It is concluded: Banquo, thy soul’s flight, if it find heaven, must find it out tonight.
The night is long that never finds the day.
How did you dare to trade and traffic with Macbeth in riddles and affairs of death?
What’s more to do, which would be planted newly with the time, as calling home our exiled friends abroad.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongue.
Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair: hover through the fog and filthy air.
What’s done is done.
Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty!
That which has made them drunk has made me bold; what has quenched them has given me fire.
Yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.
More needs she the divine than the physician.
Make our faces vizards to our hearts, disguising what they are.
I could not say ‘Amen’ when they did say ‘God bless us.’
O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee!
There’s daggers in men’s smiles.
It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield to one of woman born.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Is this a dagger which I see before me?
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage.
Out, out, brief candle!
What’s done is done.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
I dare do all that may become a man.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair: hover through the fog and filthy air.
This supernatural soliciting cannot be ill, cannot be good.
It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood.
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under ‘t.
Give me your hand; conduct me to mine host.
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition.
Full of scorpions is my mind!
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam at one fell swoop?
Unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.
Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow.
It is concluded: Banquo, thy soul’s flight, if it find heaven, must find it out tonight.
The night is long that never finds the day.
How did you dare to trade and traffic with Macbeth in riddles and affairs of death?
What’s more to do, which would be planted newly with the time, as calling home our exiled friends abroad.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongue.
Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair: hover through the fog and filthy air.
What’s done is done.
Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty!
That which has made them drunk has made me bold; what has quenched them has given me fire.
Yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.
More needs she the divine than the physician.
Make our faces vizards to our hearts, disguising what they are.
I could not say ‘Amen’ when they did say ‘God bless us.’
O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee!
There’s daggers in men’s smiles.
It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield to one of woman born.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
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